A Slippery Slope

Why do the best of us succumb to hatred? What drives us to consider ourselves, or our ilk, better than the rest - and therefore, deserving of more? When did we, as human beings, decide to abandon humanity and replace it with a corrupted version of "Survival of the Fittest"?

Xenophobia is so common around the world that it has found acceptance in mainstream political agendas. Thousands fleeing persecution are being denied asylum in places as far apart as Central Europe and India; while elsewhere, an overgrown child's tantrums have resulted in real walls across the width of a continent. Countries in Africa that have developed strong human rights policies to correct a horrible past still continue to fail to protect refugees. The United Nations is toothless and can only protest in the strongest terms while the world's powers and the big businesses (which obviously profit from it or don't care enough to do their research: run an internet search for Louis Vuitton's Ghana Must Go bags gaffe) hold it shackled. Human Rights groups like Amnesty continue to be underfunded and disorganised - their only response to every atrocity being a inefficient mission to somewhere near the affected region while far & few unpaid volunteers try to appeal for charity on the streets of the first-world countries that don't even know where on the map the country of focus is.
Religious intolerance is the foremost teaching of many self-professed megalomaniacs who continue to gather demented followers at a rate far greater than a motionless stone gathers fungal growth. Religious cleansing is as old as written history itself, often advocated by those in power in order to pander to the majority or to ensure the centre of power remains within grasp. From as far as back as the ancient Roman empire feeling threatened by new religions and the crusades in the middle ages; to the forced atheism in Communist regimes and the quest for Aryan supremacy that mutated into the holocaust, persecution of certain unfortunate groups has been a recurrent theme. Even today, atrocities continue - the Bahá'í faith is defamed in Iran, Christians are lynched for proselytising in Muslim-dominant nations and China enforces the ideological conversion of Falun Gong prisoners. Independent journalism and organisations like the International Crimes Tribunal have proven instrumental in creating awareness and ensuring justice in some cases. Unfortunately, the powers that be continue to remain untouchable. 
Homophobia is frowned upon and hushed up to such an extent that the Queer community had to come up with most colourful flag possible just to be heard. While it is good to embrace one's sexuality and bask in it, we have gone overboard with it - new definitions are being coined day in - day out to address everybody's secret fantasies as more and more people try to jump on the bandwagon just to get in on the craze. Do we really need "self-partnered"?

One the one hand, population levels are soaring in tandem with pollution; while on the other, wealth gaps and groundwater levels are dropping. Ozone layer is depleting, Ice shelves are melting, fossil fuel dependency is increasing - renewable energy is unable to cope up with the sheer volumes of established industry. On the one hand are middle-aged fat cats incoherently declaring global warming a myth, while on the other are the environmental fanatics who have a slightly autistic, angry-looking, young teenage girl as their poster child.

Global initiatives, wholeheartedly supported by the world's governments, are the need of the hour. People need to realise what the end goal is: not the betterment of a single country, but, the protection of the entire planet and the human race. Some changes may not be reversible, but if we can work together, we might be able to avoid a catastrophe and show ourselves in a better light than we have in the 6 million years so far. Right now, we're all human-lemmings marching ever so slowly towards the world's edge, towards the mass suicide we've committed ourselves to.

To Suffer in Silence

patience

/ˈpeɪʃ(ə)ns/

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noun

noun: patience

1. 1.

   the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, problems, or suffering without becoming annoyed or anxious.
2. 
   
3. - Oxford English Dictionary

Patience is a virtue, they say. They say also, that good things come to those that wait. An internet search will show you there are no end of adages to extol the virtue that is patience. Now me, I'd like to think I am quite a patient fellow since I often exhibit forbearance and self-restraint when faced with vexing situations. Most of the times, I concur with the opinion of that worthy, whoever they may be, who made the now famous analogy of sticks and stones with names. Because of my temperament, and my inaction at the dangling of the bait of anger; I have been variously equated with a St Bernard, a practicing psychologist, an inadvertent psychopath and a heartless bastard. Such a precious few! Those of the creed of the intelligent speculator, the factual pundits, and even the plausible dreamers. 

I admit it takes a lot of self-control to tolerate some of the people we're forced to deal with as a daily happenstance: Some tend to be living proof of the inverse ratio between the sizes of the mouth and the brain; others, targets of Wanda's famous "I've worn dresses with higher IQs!" quote; while the remainder are just clever, but obstinate curmudgeons that refuse to concede a point. Conducting oneself with stoicism in the face of absurdity and acute astute-adversity is an art in itself: 

Persons who let their mouths run faster than their brains are easy to deal with - they're probably paying even lesser attention to us than they are to their thinking muscles. It takes some practice - which is thankfully easy when we're surrounded by so many specimens to do so - but, in time, some of us learn to quietly ignore the unnecessary spouts of verbosity and pick out the few sentences that are worth replying to; all the while making sure our far and few responses are steering the conversation to the logical conclusion we want it to reach. There is a certain satisfaction to be had when you arrive at that point and you're the only one involved in the exchange who knows that you're exactly where you wanted to be since the others are still wrapping their heads around thoughts that formed a minute ago. When everyone's caught up, all that remains is for you to summarize the discussion and thank everyone for their participation, while pretending that everyone contributed equally. 

The evolutionary dead-ends that sometimes manage to pass for human beings are often tougher to handle. The frustration of having to deal with these troglodytes sometimes bubbles to the surface; especially when one is aware they have attained their current position and status in society only due to the position and status of their guardians - probably because of whom they ended up having tossed-around upstairs to begin with. They usually exhibit a certain child-like innocence or an awe-struck amazement for statements and solutions that others would consider the norm of normalcy. One needs to be aware of the fact that they are bargaining with souls that are truly incapable of grasping the situation at the level one is. One needs to also be aware that there are bigger fish with better brains than oneself - it is a vast ocean. It is best to assume an advisory role and firmly, yet gently, guide them to the right conclusions. Appropriating the benevolent guise also ingratiates the self with the powers-that-be and makes them extend their advantageous hands brimming with bountiful short-cuts over our heads as well. Sometimes, it is worth having an instant "influencer" in your corner. 

Dealing with pigheadedness is altogether a different ballgame and often inconclusive. Not because for lack of trying on our part, but for the obstinacy on theirs. More often than not, it is best to let the argument stew in itself and approach it again when the mulish debater is more amicable. Contrary to our unspoken opinions of such contrary personages, the recalcitrant lot are ordinarily quite coherent and lucid in their thoughts.
The trick to successfully engaging with people is to understand that everyone's point-of-view are their own, and that they are all entitled and welcome to them. Agreements and compacts are just transactions in which weights are thrown and compromises made. Its only business - with emotional & logical barter. 

At times, its understandable to be at complete odds with the world around us - "Good times never seem to last", lamented Neil Diamond to his Caroline. Whenever we go through a bad phase time seems slowed down, everyone seems against us and the rain never seems to stop falling down. Some choose to extend the cloud overhead to others around them, while others choose to withdraw within and encase themselves into cocoons. Neither, though, is the best course of action probably.
On the one hand, not many companions are usually found during times of trouble - we profess ourselves surprised to say the least when all the many friends confess they were only of the fair-weather type. It is best to keep an open mind and an open heart and hope for the best:

• Know that it isn't everyone else's fault that we are feeling down;
• Know that everyone else doesn't need to join us in our misery;
• Know that we can only appeal to comrades or to higher authorities in higher planes of existence; 
• Know that responses need not be given - from confidants or supreme beings; 

If help does come, we must stay true to those soul mates. If help doesn't come, we must ask - for we shall receive. The human race isn't that bereft of morals and humanity. The Universe in all its vastness, cannot afford pettiness. It must, therefore, be impartial. In which case, we aren't being selected for scapegoats. We've only been given random opportunities to strengthen the stuff that makes us. Philosophers have, since time immemorial, theorised that the good times and the bad are cyclic - and neither lasts forever. 

Probably the most important patience of all is the ability to be considerate with the Self. Despite the greatest of our expectations with ourselves, we have our limitations. We will not, at all times, succeed - it is an imperfect world, and though we may refuse to see it, so are we. The discontentment we feel for ourselves is what we project to the world as bitterness. The lack of an ability to forgive the Self is what leads to crushing disappointment and, if unchecked, to physical self-harm and mental anguish. The one true path that leads out of the quagmire of crushed dreams and the river of black thoughts is to dispassionately evaluate one's situation:

• What's wrong?;
• Who can help alleviate?;
• How did it happen?;
• What does one do (and need) to fix it?;
• When will it get better?;

Perhaps the most important question of them all - "what needs to be done so that one never has to experience this exasperating feeling again?". Answer all these, with help from bosom companions, if necessary, and one will find oneself on the road of profound self-awareness and on a journey of continuous self-improvement. The capacity to say "mea culpa", but at the same time pardon ourselves for failing is what will drive us to empathise with our fellow man and truly comprehend humanity.

"Patience", after all, has Middle English origins with Old French roots stemming from the Latin prefix "patient-", meaning "suffering" - not a word, but a prefix. In other words, whatever the language, the very intent of "patience" is to inherently teach us that all suffering must be endured, but never alone. 

The Unbending Will

Oft have we wondered -
Of the inevitable course,
Of the immovable object,
And the unstoppable force.

Oft do we ponder -
Why those portents' mock,
What of the hard place -
When the proverbial rock?

Yet we may speculate -
Where the recourse is,
When Scylla is the former,
The latter, Charybdis.

Everyone has choices,
To tear down or to build,
In the face of perilous options,
Unbending Will won't yield.

Existence is fraught with dilemmas,
The conclusion, even as we live -
Though neither may have the answer,
Still something has to give.

The Man at the Crossroads

   The man in Apartment 322 woke up to the shrill tone of the digital alarm clock sitting on his nightstand; angled so that his outstretched arm while fully prone, on his stomach, in his bed, would smartly rap the snooze button on the very first attempt - always. The man opened his eye warily and noted with satisfaction that the clock face lit up a dull red "06:00". He opened his other eye and, propping himself up on his elbows, allowed himself a quick, jerky, self-satisfied, self-congratulatory nod of the head. Pausing a second, he decided such punctuality warranted a perfunctory moistening of his dry lips and jabbed his tongue about in practised ease. When the right-most set of LEDs on the clock face switched from "0" to "1", the man cleared his nostrils with a "Humph", flipped over onto his back, rolled off his bed and slipped his toes into his fluffy bedroom slippers while raising himself to full height - all in a single motion fluid enough to shame a Olympic-level gymnast. The scrupulous being went about his stretches and exercises, speeding up the blood in his veins to the muted tempo of a grunted "a-one-an'-a-two-an'-a-one" chant. At exactly "06:13" according to the clock, he swept himself to the bathroom. For the next 10 minutes, there was silence enough to hear the dust motes execute their Brownian paths in the sliver of morning sunlight streaming from the slip of gap between the screened curtains on the windows; that and the rather tuneless humming accentuated by the regular sploshing of splashing water. Having completed his toilette, the resident of Apartment 322 proceeded into the kitchen, his slippered, but still wet, feet slapping against the lacquered floor tiles. Watching the inhabitant of Apartment 322 - though why anyone would voluntarily put themselves through the trouble - one would logically suppose that the worthy in question was a severe and punctilious hermit; and one would have supposed quite correctly.

   From the kitchen came the sounds of a coffee pot put to boil and clink of the milk bottles being brought in the backdoor. From the back wall, directly above the backdoor hung an analogue, circular-faced, white-dialled and black-handed wall clock mounted on a peg. As the minute and second hands raced each other past the dot positioned at "6", the backdoor slammed shut. It was with obvious consternation that man in Apartment 322 turned his back to the kitchen door - tucked underneath his left arm was the usual rolled-up newspaper, clutched in the fingers of his left arm were the usual couple of bottles of milk; but his right hand clutched an unusual, small, stubby, wide-mouthed glass bottle showing its cheery red contents at taut arm's length and beady eye level. All was still, except for the unnaturally loud ticking of the wall clock as he confusedly set the milk bottles next to his breakfast plate at the table and deposited the newspaper in the fridge. Still staring at the jam bottle - for that was what the label said - in his hand, oblivious to the fiercely bubbling coffee, his trembling fingers - now free of the milk bottles - made their way to the square, brown tag made of coarse, handmade paper tied to the jam bottle's squat neck in brown twine rather like a cheap piece of jewellery: "Season's greetings! Thanks for being an esteemed customer!", it proclaimed in a green, spindly, eye-sore of a cursive font. He set the bottle down on the kitchen counter in a jerky, quick motion. Arms akimbo, he stared at it in a rather unfocused manner until the coffee pot began spewing out a black tar-like substance over the stove, awakening him from his trance. Shaking his head and mentally kicking himself, he hurried about his breakfast trying to make up for the lost seconds.

At exactly 06:50 according to the kitchen clock - for that matter, also according to the digital clock in the bedroom, or even the wristwatch on his hand - the man from Apartment 322, smartly shut the main door behind him as he prepared to launch himself into the early morning multitude of tradespeople fording the streets on their own ways to their own places of business. Everyday, our acquaintance took exactly 22 minutes to reach his workplace which was a little corner-store at a busy downtown intersection that prided on stocking everything from greeting cards to parkas. Today, however, it was nearly 40 minutes later that he arrived at his shop - having been jostled thrice, tripped twice (of his own accord) and even having taken a wrong turn once - very flustered. His mood did little to improve itself as the day progressed: he had set the dailies in their racks - but definitely out of order since the sports pages were turned up, he dropped a box of soda cans over his foot, disturbed a display of cheap jewellery whilst hopping up and down in pain; and had to twice apologize to customers for miscounted change.

At 19:00, he gave up and pronounced his life "dead" and noted the time of departure in his mind. With a sombre face and a matching slouch, he walked home in a daze. On absentmindedly opening the door and letting himself in, his eyes nervously darted to the kitchen; and through the open door, at the off-white refrigerator which housed the aberrant jam bottle since earlier that day. He gnashed his teeth with a frustrated annoyance that was quite strange to his demure demeanour and stomped into his bedroom to get changed for a one-man war council. Twenty minutes later found him back in the kitchen, pacing to and fro in front of the counter. Occasionally, he clicked his fingers and followed through with imperceptible little nods and shakes of his head. He continued in this manner for an hour and then sighing enormously he headed off to bed like a defeated Atlas burdened with the weight of the skies.

Next morning, things went awry even before breakfast. The occupant of Apartment 322 woke up late - fourteen minutes late, to be exact. He hurried through his ablutions and was very cross with himself by the time he left for work - nearly twenty minutes behind schedule. The rest of the day went just as badly as the previous one with his daily routine upset and his concentration often broken with his mind on the jam bottle in his refrigerator. It was a severely frayed looking person who let himself in to Apartment 322 that evening. He hurried to the fridge and fished out the jam bottle and quickly set it on the counter-top as if it were poisonous to the touch. He shook his head worriedly and went to get changed. Again, he dragged himself into the kitchen for his war council for the innocent looking jam bottle had wreaked havoc with his ordered and bland life. As he continued to debate his conundrum, he realised there were noises of some heavy things being dragged around outside. He whipped around and went up to the front window and saw that he seemed to be getting new neighbours. He watched with interest as the movers unloaded the truck - out came large boxes and furniture and into Apartment 321 they went. As he studied the steady flow of material from the truck to the building, a greasy taxi cab drove up to the kerb and deposited a middle-aged couple. The man was well-built, though gone-to-seed a little around the midsection; with closely cropped peppery hair and a matching moustache. His companion was a little wispy lady clutching an over-size handbag. They looked at Apartment 321 and glanced at each other with joy writ large on their faces. As the last of the boxes went into the building, and the movers packed up their equipment, the neighbours made their way into their new home hand-in-hand.

As the movers' truck pulled away, a proverbial light bulb lit itself in the cranial region of the man in Apartment 322. He gave a strangled squeak of delight and ran pell-mell to the kitchen. Scarcely stopping, he grabbed the jam bottle, executed a U-turn while skidding over the foot-mat and ran out the front door. He made his way next door and smartly rapped on the door. As he bounced on the spot in his bedroom slippers, the door opened and he found himself face-to-face with the new Mr & Mrs Apartment 321. Soon they were making small talk; laughing politely and nodding patiently while each party introduced themselves and explained their lots in life. As they said their goodnights, the man from Apartment 322 thrust out the bottle of jam and welcomed Mr & Mrs Apartment 321 to the neighbourhood. A very surprised Mrs Apartment 321 smiled and graciously accepted the unexpected gift.

It was, once again, the old inhabitant of Apartment 322 that re-entered and closed the door behind him. He let out a huge sigh of relief and noted that it was precisely 11:30 PM. He smiled to himself as he made his way to the bedroom for some well-deserved sleep.

Bacchanalia

She waits in eager anticipation of revelries to come. Standing in the circle, a slip of a hand tightly en-clasped in her each of her sisters'; fingers white with the constricting grip; faces pale in the oppressive heat of silent hope. Their foreheads with wreaths a-bound in rustling haloes; glistening with tiny, sparkling, pearly, beads of sweat. Their shift-like gauzy dresses wrapped in fawn-skin shuffling with the occasional sigh of a restless wind suspiring after the sea and speculating to itself the reason it had gotten all the way up to the hilltop.

The harsh stillness cracks at the clash of cymbals. From her right - towards the Occident comes the mellifluous cacophony of flutes, drums and pipes adding to the tinny monotone of the cymbals. An intense jolt of zeal interspersed with elated passion runs up her spine - through their connected hands she feels her sisters shiver in excitement beside her. The thiasoi were beginning the celebrations!

Slowly, in time to the sound of the beats, she feels herself swaying. Rhythmic, languidly, awaiting the delirium she knows will come. As the sun drowns himself in the wine-red brine, the brackets along the walls of the rock-lined arena flickers to life in a steady stream of yellow bursts in the periphery of her vision. As the beams at the horizon completely blink out, thwarted and extinguished once more by unhurried and impassive waves; the bonfire in the middle of the undulating ring flares up with a hissing roar threatening to burn the very ceiling though the heavens seem far and cold with their haughty stars no more the cold pinpricks on velvet field.

More of her sisters appear with jugs and amphorae. She reaches out with her hands and gratefully accepts a golden goblet. Tilting back her shapely, brown curls, she drains the blood-stained ambrosia - all the while vacillating from side-to-side in synchronous harmony with the rest of the cluster. She passes the chalice around the ring and awaited its return to her. Time seemed sluggish - slow; yet the goblet is already thrust in her hand. The libations are never-ending. She thanks the Gods in an alleluia that is taken up gladly by those around her. The music throbs, the pace quickens, her eyes dull and fevered stare out across the scene. The dancing firelight throws shadows - the circlet of veering and keeling figures form a undulating serpent swallowing its own tail. She smells the sweet fragrance of wine on her lips. Her knotted hair, now undone still has the scent of the oil she coiffed it with. There is a hint of burning incense and rosemary in the air. She feels the pulse of her sisters' hands quicken. She prepares for the gay abandonment of staid decorum she knows will soon come. She herself expects to begin dancing in earnest soon; after all, her mind knows the edge of the precipice of sanity when it senses it.

She starts sensing everything in detail. The sounds of the harmonious instruments, unruly stamping feet, the whitecaps crashing into the rocks below overwhelm her. The lurid colours of the gathered masses in sharp relief by the fire-glow and the dark, lush felt of the night sky above them dazzle her. The sweet, acid tang of the wine and the hint of salt in the bracing night air impress her like they never have. The concept of time ceases to exist. She ceases to exist as a being. She gives herself up to the mystery of it all.

Quite suddenly, she finds herself on another plane, without. She sees herself still dancing and whirling among the women. Yet, here she is observing all of it from up on high. She finds herself enveloped by beautifully shaped, gloriously shining, sublimely god-like figures. The Gods! She bashfully looks up at them with slanted eyes - not daring a direct glance. She notices a smile before she succumbs to the will of the rapture. Her spirit body is aflame, awash with ice. She feels the constant, tingling sensation running up and down her spine - yet she dances on, on the ground below. She spends an eternity suspended in the vacuous expanse surrounded by the very beings she was celebrating. She witnesses all there has been and all there is to be. Then her world goes black.

She awakes to the faint rosy glow in the Levant sky. She finds herself lying in the mossy bank, deep in the woods on the leeward side of the hill. She stands up to notice a few of her sisters from last night nearby in a stupor. She brushes the last vestiges of the torpor from the corners of her mind, adjusts her clothing and hair; and makes her way downhill to the town and her life.